Work Text:
The deer onesie is almost certainly part of some elaborate trap. Alastor has been turning it down for a month. Not a chance, he'd said. Had called it infantile, and laughed in Vox's face—which, ouch, it will never not be too soon for that shit. So why now would he suddenly agree to put it on and 'be cozy together'? He even let Vox drink coffee past the 8pm cutoff without bitching. Forbidden coffee.
Something terrible is definitely afoot. Alastor is lulling him into a false sense of security. Vox knows it. And the worst part is that he can't bring himself to care—not with Alastor's head tucked against his chest, the deer sweetly dozing on and off while Vox scrolled on his phone. Maybe it's not everything he's ever wanted, but it's pretty damned close. It's peaceful.
Or it is until Alastor breaks the quiet with a coy little: "Vox?"
Vox tosses his phone to the side, already prepared to pay whatever hidden price Alastor places on what was a perfect evening. "Yes, deer?" He squeezes Alastor closer, soaking in the last bits of affection before the fucker yoinks the rug out from under him.
Alastor chuckles, a claw idly tracing over the middle 'D' on Vox's 'Shark Daddy' tshirt. "I've given the list you provided me quite a lot of thought. If you wanted to maybe discuss—" He's cut off when Vox flings him across the bed, landing with an oomph and a glare that's completely ruined by the amused curl of his smile.
"Sure, yep, one-hundred percept down to discuss. In fact..." Vox manifests his laptop with a small flash of light, leaving Alastor stun-locked and blinking away spots—because flash-banging his deer is, more often than not, the only banging Vox gets to do with him, and it's not like Alastor doesn't deserve it. "I've actually prepared a spreadsheet for us, just so I can manage all the fine details, you know?"
Alastor rolls onto his stomach, notably less amused after his temporary blindness. "You've created a spreadsheet for our love life?"
"Unless you're ready to admit that you love me, you don't get to call it our love life. It's mean. You can call it our 'friends with very few benefits' life."
"Never. And you'll do well to remember that my very presence is to your benefit, if you don't want to lose kissing privileges." Alastor grins, the playful light returning to his eyes as he begins to kick his feet in the air behind him. "Now, before you get too excited—" Too late. "—I have some questions. The first being: is there anything on that list that you yourself are unwilling to try?"
Vox blinks, head spinning a little. Maybe from the excitement. "I mean, I won't consent to anything permanently disabling. No angelically severed limbs or eternal reduction of my IQ. And...no feces. I just—yeah, no, I'm sick but I'm not nasty. Everything else is on the table."
"Interesting. So, pet play? Medical play? How about body modification?" Alastor lists them from memory, and Vox's heart gives a thud.
"Those are uh—pretty heavy starters, but yeah. Absolutely. Sure."
Everything about the way Alastor is lounging—from his half-lidded eyes to his tail, wiggling happily from the backside of the cutesy deer onesie—it's all a giant red flag. "How about consensual non-consent?"
Vox clears his throat, finding it very hard to focus. "Our day-to-day dynamic, but make it sexual? Sure."
"And if I wanted to get a little creative? If I were to say that none of those 'kinks' were to my taste, in the conventional sense...?"
Vox's mouth is really dry. "Then I would say that nothing about us has ever been conventional, baby, so let's make some sparks."
"Lovely," Alastor purrs.
Pretty. Alastor's smile is so pretty. Just...stunning. Sharp, and wicked, and fixed on Vox in a way Vox knows he should probably be worried about, but he's really struggling to hold onto any of his thoughts.
"One more, sweetheart, and then you can rest," Alastor continues, voice rich and warm. "What about drugging?"
Rest sounds nice, actually. Really nice. He shouldn't be this mind-numbingly tired just after coffee. He blinks down at the computer screen, the lines on his spreadsheet blurring—registers how many more pixels are being devoted to his pupils than his irises. "Oh, you fucker," Vox laughs. "You—you absolute—"
"Up-bup-bup, answer quick now, sweetheart—you're almost out of time. Do you consent to this non-consent?"
"I–yes. Yes," Vox runs a hand down his screen, mourning his wasted spreadsheet–fear pushing a giddy laugh from him as his consciousness starts to waver. "Are you gonna–is it bad? Will it hurt?"
He sounds funny to his own receivers. Vulnerable. Not like himself. He knew when they decided to try and make this work between them that he was playing with fire. That no amount of cuddling or dinner dates would actually tame the Radio Demon. But what they have is good, isn't it? It's real?
Alastor's expression softens, leaning over Vox as Vox slowly slumps down on the bed. "Only so much as you let it. You'll have your word, if you need it. Now...sleep. When you wake up, you'll be a very good boy for me."
Vox melts as Alastor kisses him, slow and sweet–and not the sweet-as-poison kind of sweet. The real kind. The sugary, fills him with warmth kind. Fear is no match for the surge of fondness he feels as he slips slowly into the dark.
❈
Alastor has never been too keen on the idea of having pets. Cultivating exploitable bonds, stripping a tool beyond use—those are the things that make sense to him. He's always believed exploitation to be the natural progression of affection. Care given without gain is superfluous, and therefore so are pets.
Yet as he sits here, watching his very own pet fish pant and whine at his feet—well, it breaks his heart to realize how badly he's neglected Vox. All the years he wasted—years Vox suffered alone instead of suffering for Alastor. He can't help but feel that perhaps he fumbled, as the youths say.
"That's a good boy. I knew you would be," Alastor praises, marveling at the way Vox's stomach distends with every bounce. The toy he fixed to the floor for Vox really is too big, but he couldn't help himself. There's something so appealing about watching Vox rearrange his own organs just to breathe. "Keep going, sweetheart—got to keep air moving through those gills."
Vox whines again, eyes beginning to glaze over as he loses his rhythm again. His skin is glistening with sweat, thighs shaking as he struggles to stay in motion—fascinating. "Please. A-Alastor—just a small...s-small..."
"Break? Oh no, no, no, sweetheart—breaks are earned!" Alastor titters.
An obligate ram ventilator. That's what Alastor's shark-book-turned-pet-care guide called Vox. His body is designed for an open ocean it will never see, requiring constant motion to breathe through his gills. It's a non-issue for Vox, normally. His technological half is more than capable of compensating when fully functional.
Unfortunately for Vox, he is not fully functional.
Alastor had a bit of fun with the man after dosing him. Nothing truly harmful! Just a few select wires snipped as he performed maintenance—adding a bit of necessary realism to the adoption process. Vox would hardly qualify as a pet fish were there no risk of him drowning on land.
It's fine. A bit of slow asphyxiation is good for the spirit. Alastor's spirit.
"Keep going. Up, down—just like that, unless you wish to lose consciousness again. I won't revive you this time." Alastor lies. "You don't want to be stuck in a regeneration loop, do you?" Vox whines, pitifully. "No, I thought not. Honestly, maybe I should have picked a different animal. A dog maybe, instead of a fish. What good is a pet that suffocates if you aren't constantly fucking it?"
"Puh-lease, Ah—Ah—Ah-las...tor, please!" Vox keens. His gills are fluttering, screen bright with fever as his eyes roll back. Alastor can't help himself—uses a few tendrils of shadow to add pressure to Vox's shoulders, spearing him deeper on the toy.
"That's it," Alastor coos. "Drown sweetly for me."
Vox's ribcage is forced to expand, accommodating the new arrangement of his insides. His hole stretched past its limit, gripping the faux phallus so tightly that Alastor catches glimpses of his light-blue inner walls dragging on each upward lift. Alastor swears beneath his breath, at just how obscene his little fish looks.
"You were so tight when we got started," Alastor giggles. "Now look at you—you're sloppy. How long do you think you'd have to do this to ruin this needy little whore-hole?" He forced Vox into another too-rough bounce down the toy's thick base. "Hm?"
Vox sobs—muscles spasming, tummy slick from the constant slap of his leaking cock, tears streaming—and Alastor thinks maybe he understands a bit better why Vox was so invested in getting him to try from a list of kinks. Sex has always been a burden for him. It was a task to be completed—not a moment to treasure, or a pleasure worth chasing.
But this—this is both. Vox is beautiful in his suffering. His drool, his tears—the way he's still trying his best, even if he can't remember why. A mindless, devoted little pet. He's positively pathetic. Alastor thinks maybe he's never loved Vox more than he does in this moment.
Maybe tonight can be a practice run. Maybe he can whisper the words in the afterglow, when Vox is too blissed to remember. I love you, soft and painless. Just to see if he's even capable of forming the words, and how it feels to remove his own teeth. Yes. That's what he'll do.
He smiles, sharp and warm—extends his bare hoof to run it along the underside of Vox's cock. Vox rasps a moan, scarcely bouncing enough to breathe. Suffocating. Again. But still his pupils form hearts, and his cock throbs at the attention. "Good boy. That's my sweet pet—come for me."
Shadowy tendrils encircle Vox's limbs, helping Vox build up a rough, steady rhythm again. Alastor leans forward, giving Vox more of his hoof and ankle to rut against. "Come for me one more time, and then I'll take such good care of you," he promises, fondly kissing away the fresh tears.
He's hardly surprised at all to realize it's a promise he means to keep.